Page 1 of A Lady, Her Lord, & Their Duke

CHAPTER 1

Golden Square, London, August 1817

It was an objective fact that Lord Neville Carlisle had an exceptional backside. Whether encased in trousers, breeches, or buckskins, both the ton—and scandal sheets—agreed that never had a firmer, more elegant arse graced society’s halls, clubs, and drawing rooms.

Nev’s backside looked even better naked. However, when that creamy canvas was reddened and crisscrossed from the stinging kiss of a riding crop and stuffed full with a dildo from their ever-growing collection, it ascended to genuine work of art.

Sighing in contentment, Lady Arabella Carlisle resettled herself against the pile of pillows on their bed and drank in the lascivious display. While disciplining her husband left her soaking wet with arousal, it was his joyful, tender gratitude afterward, the blissful pleasure-pain haze in his heavenly chocolate-brown eyes, that she loved best. Neville craved this and needed it regularly. They both did. Fortunately, ten years prior, he had demonstrated impeccable wisdom in proposing to a no-nonsense woman who not only encouraged his sexual submission…but reveled in it.

“Tell me, my darling,” she said, reaching over to smooth his rumpled, silver-touched blond hair as it glinted in the cool morning light. “Did I select an appropriate anniversary gift?”

Neville blinked and offered a sleepy yet mischievous grin. “You spoil me, Ara. I’ll be sore all day. Every step a reminder of my wife’s perfectly stern hand.”

“Good,” Arabella said crisply.

He moaned, a tentative, unspoken reminder that she had not yet permitted him an orgasm. And she wouldn’t. Not until this evening’s special surprise. “You look like the cat with an entire bucket of cream, madam. Dare I assume you remain content with your purchase?”

She laughed. “Naughty man. You know full well that content doesn’t begin to describe my feelings. Each year I think I could not be happier…and each year I am proved wrong. What we have is so very rare. A truly excellent marriage.”

Neville rubbed his cheek against her hand, then turned his head and pressed a kiss to it. “I know I say this every year, but perhaps eventually I’ll understand why you chose a near-impoverished, politically radical baron fifteen years your senior to wed. It is no exaggeration to say every titled bachelor from London to Edinburgh was pursuing you. Including a few minor royals.”

That was true. At twenty she had been the toast of the town, praised as an incomparable, a diamond of the first water, the very epitome of womanhood and other such blathering nonsense. Ha. The men offering such lavish, empty words scarcely looked at her face and never engaged her mind. They saw her plump figure as a promise of fertility, and her enormous dowry as a swift way to rebuild their estates, fill their stables, and fund their peccadillos. As a textile merchant’s daughter without a drop of blue blood, she hadn’t been a person to them. Just a womb with a mountain of guineas…someone to fleece, impregnate and ignore.

Unbeknownst to all these suitors, though, Miss Arabella Ferndale had one winning card in hand: her father. While a ruthlessly successful businessman, Papa had always been affectionate and indulgent toward her. His one stipulation for her future husband was a title…but which title was entirely her choice. She’d then proceeded to shock society speechless by strolling past the lines of dukes and marquesses and earls vying for her hand…for a baron who tried very hard to dissuade her.

“The others were pursuing my dowry. You saw me,” Arabella said simply. “No one else asked questions or demonstrated any curiosity about my hopes and dreams and desires. And they assumed I wanted children when I simply do not.”

“True.”

“Also, you were an open book about yourself. The others wanted me shackled in matrimony before they would even hint at the truth of their finances or politics or sexual preferences. I abhor deceit. And men who believe I’m too beautiful to think.”

Neville grinned. “It would certainly behoove me to be discreet about my politics. Alas, I have that terrible habit of climbing on any stage available and bellowing about abolishing slavery and extending the vote. The Piccadilly Market stallholders and Cheapside shopkeepers both love and hate me; I gather the crowds, but also nobles armed with rotten vegetables.”

“Ah yes, the men of Polite Society,” said Arabella, rolling her eyes.

“Now, my love, if they didn’t demonstrate rampant hypocrisy, how would we know who the truly powerful were? Besides, my tongue is nimblest under a hail of jeers and tomato pulp.”

“I must respectfully disagree,” she purred. “I think it is nimblest when inside me. Speaking of which…”

Neville moaned again, much louder this time, and carefully maneuvered himself into position between her legs. These days, her husband was so deliciously adept at pleasuring her that he required little guidance. However, Arabella gained particular enjoyment in tangling her fingers in his silky hair, of tugging roughly until he panted with need, of wrapping her sturdy thighs about his head and forcing his face into her pussy as she ground against his mouth. God, the way his nose nuzzled her thick black bush and his tongue lapped at her swollen clitoris so frantically!

“Yes,” Arabella praised as the familiar throbbing, tingling rush to orgasm built and built inside her, as her senses swam in the heady musky scent of her juices. “That’s the way. Worship your owner.”

He opened his mouth a little wider, his upper lip rubbing her clitoris as his eager tongue plunged deep in the slick channel his cock rarely went. Nev didn’t want children either, and it was so much easier—and empowering—knowing their play wouldn’t risk this.

“Tell me,” mumbled Neville, as his tongue flicked and danced, hurling her closer and closer to ecstasy. “Tell me.”

“I adore you!” she gasped, a wild cry tearing from her throat as she flew to the stars on the wings of pure bliss.

Eventually, Arabella released her husband from her tight grip and he stared up at her, his gaze beseeching, his breath short, sharp pants. “May I come? My cock is going to explode.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Not until tonight.”

For a moment, affronted shock flared in his gaze, and she almost spanked him for the impudence. Then understanding dawned, and the excitement on his face warmed her to the soul. “You’ve made an appointment at Sanctuary.”

“I have,” Arabella replied. “We’ll choose a playfellow at the club, then romp to our hearts’ content in the diamond chamber.”

Neville beamed. “My favorite treat. I love you so much, Ara.”